Playing for Keeps (Glasgow Lads Book 2) (22 page)

John stepped into a space that held more Fergusness than anywhere he’d ever been. Over the corner fireplace was something he could only describe as a work of art
about
art: a stylized mosaic of a color wheel, in which each section of the circle consisted of glass and steel chips of that color. Each chip was different to its neighbors, so John guessed they were all scrap pieces Fergus had found, which meant this piece must have taken months to build.

“You made this?” he said with awe.

“Mm-hm. Here, look.” Fergus turned him toward the drafting table, which held an array of sketches and blueprints. On the flat desk beside it stood a three-dimensional model of a neighborhood. “Plans for that sustainable community I mentioned.”

John leaned over the desk to examine the pathways and green spaces winding among the buildings. “I thought it was just an idea, but you’ve actually put work into it.”

“Been mucking about now and again for the last few years. I design it on the computer back home in Glasgow, then when I come here I render what I can on the model. Software’s great, but there’s nothing like getting my hands on actual things.” He shifted one of the buildings half an inch to the left, then linked his little finger with John’s. “Speaking of things, come see my workshop.”

Fergus led John into a room of controlled chaos. Bits of scrap metal and wood littered the floor along the far wall. Two worktables stood in the center, one with a circular saw and a sander, and the other with sadistic-looking contraptions John assumed were metalworking tools.

“My toybox.” Fergus crossed to a four-foot-high crate as long as John was tall. “They say one man’s rubbish is another man’s treasure.” He lifted a round silver basket that looked like half of a broken colander. “This, however, might remain rubbish.”

“Could be a lampshade.” John took it from him and demonstrated. “Sorta steampunky.”

“That’s good. I like it.” He brought out his phone and thumbed in a note. “My inventory’s in an app so when I’m home in Glasgow I know what I need. See, each item has its own entry, with photos from all perspectives, plus meta-data on where—oh God, I’m boring you, aren’t I?”

“No, this is fucking magic. I’d love to watch you work, see you make art out of nothing. Also, the image of you wielding a power drill makes me horny beyond belief.”

Fergus laughed. “Later this summer we could come back for a few days’ visit.”

The thought made John glow inside. “Okay. Once my dad’s recovered.”

“Right.” Fergus ran his thumb along the smooth-sanded edge of his toybox. “You know, it was my own father who taught me all these things. Not only the aesthetic part, but also about sustainable building, leaving a tiny carbon footprint, et cetera.” He pressed on a nail head as if to drive it deeper into the wood. “I know if Da were still alive, we might not even be talking to each other. But I still wish he’d lived to see what I’ve accomplished. Maybe he’d find it enough to make up for my being gay.”

John wanted to simultaneously hug Fergus and his own father. Unlike John, Fergus never got to hear his dad say,
It’s okay. I love you for who you are.

A knock came at the studio’s front door. “Sorry, I lied!” Mrs. Taylor’s voice rang out from the main room. “There’s something for you lads to help with after all. Uncle Pat wants the conservatory furniture rearranged for the eleventh time.”

“Be right there, Ma,” Fergus called. As he moved toward the door, John took his hand.

“I need to tell you something.” His mouth opened a heartbeat before he started speaking. “
You’re
enough, Fergus. There’s nothing you need to do to prove to anyone you’re as good as them. Not on a football pitch, not in a studio.” He took Fergus’s face between his hands and kissed him. “Not anywhere.”

= = =

John had never seen a home so full of light. The L-shaped conservatory wrapped around two full sides of the Taylors’ house, flooding the adjoining rooms with endless late-June sunshine—or cloudshine, to be precise. Entering the wide, bright room itself was like stepping into a cleaner, better-smelling version of the outdoors.

The deluge of guests began at five o’clock sharp. Lainie’s scouting report—on both the Taylors and Evan’s interaction with them—had made John briefly consider a more subdued social style.

But only briefly. Once the festive pipe-and-fiddle music began, along with the dancing and singing, John decided to give his gregarious nature free rein. He mingled with guests on his own, rather than plastering himself to Fergus’s side like a timid dog. He let the great-aunties beat him at croquet, applauding their cutthroat tactics. And for the most part, he avoided the Derry contingent.

Most encouraging of all, by the end of dinner the Taylors had stopped referring to him as “the new Evan.”

He was chatting to Uncle Pat about the upcoming Commonwealth Games when a steady, piercing note arose from the hired band’s Uilean piper.

“Cake! Cake! Cake! Cake!” Malcolm bellowed, stomping his foot on the conservatory’s timber floor. The rest of the family joined voice quickly, flooding in from the other rooms as the birthday cake was wheeled forward on a cart, candles blazing. The piper blew another note to keep them on-key (more or less) for “Happy Birthday.”

After the song, Uncle Pat began the first toast. “I’ve got just one wee thing to say about my
older
sister here.” He tamped down the laughter. “No, no, it’s very serious. Shhh.”

Just as the room went silent, Isobel began to wail.

“Sorry!” Holding the baby, Lainie bobbed and swayed with jerky motions, her face nearly as red as her daughter’s. “I dinna ken what’s wrong, I just changed her nappie.”

Uncle Pat tried to get out the next sentence, but his voice was swamped by Izzy’s persistent cries. The amusement in the crowd slowly turned to irritation.

“Lainie,” Malcolm said, standing by the cake with Fergus and their mum. “Perhaps you could take her out to the garden?”

“You want us to leave?” The poor lass looked about to cry herself.

John hurried over and said, “I’ll take her.”

Lainie made a feeble protest before handing over Izzy, who immediately lowered her screeches to a series of whimpers. “You’re a god on earth, John Burns.”

“Aye, spread that rumor round the party. Maybe I’ll get invited back.” He retreated into the study, where he found a door to the rear garden.

Outside, the evening air was blissfully cool and quiet, and the sky was now a slightly darker gray than it had been at midday. John carried the gurgling Izzy down a flagstone path until he found a small fountain surrounded by a koi pond.

“Look, Izzy, fish!” He sat on the pond’s smooth stone wall. At the sight of the fish swimming to the surface in hopes of food, Izzy finally fell silent.

“Guh.” She pointed to the koi and released a stream of drool.

“That’s right. Goldfish. Well done.” He tilted her so the slobber would land in the pool and not on his trousers—they were his only nice pair—then, holding her steady, he let her lie on her belly on the fountain’s smooth stone edge so she could dip her hands. Soon the garden was full of her laughter and splashing.

When she tired of that bit of fun, he found a swing chair in the adjoining section of the garden, where the scent of roses hung in the humid air. He set Izzy in his lap and began to rock. Within a minute she was asleep, head propped on his chest. John let his own eyes close, exhausted from the week’s trials—caring for his dad, preparing for the charity match rollout—but especially the strain of meeting Fergus’s family. It was pure murder trying to
be
himself yet not
embarrass
himself.

He’d almost drifted off when tobacco smoke reached his nose and Northern Irish accents reached his ears. On the other side of the wall and hedgerow, near the fountain, the Derry contingent had gathered, Mrs. Taylor’s three boisterous, middle-aged cousins.

A familiar voice greeted the group of men. “Hello, lads!” Fergus said. “Finally found time to chat to you. This party’s so crowded, it’s mental.”

“No worries,” said one of the cousins. “Cigar?”

“Cheers, Graeme.” A lighter flicked, then Fergus said, “Ah, that’s excellent. Is it Cuban?”

“Dominican,” Graeme replied. “Severely underrated.”

Uneasy at the thought of eavesdropping on Fergus, John shifted Izzy in his arms, preparing to leave. The four men were near the fountain, whose running water would hopefully mask his footsteps—assuming he slipped away without Izzy wailing.

“Ma tells me you’re all staying for two weeks,” Fergus said.

“Through the thirteenth,” a deep-voiced cousin replied. “Any excuse to get away from home for the Twelfth and those fecking parades.”

John went still.
Here it comes, just like Lainie said.

“They’ve got the Orange Walks in Glasgow, too,” Fergus said. “So bizarre. And there are all these laws now about what you can and can’t sing at Celtic and Rangers matches. Ma says if the government really wanted to rid Scotland of sectarianism, they’d outlaw both football clubs.”

“If that happened,” Graeme said, “Catholics and Protestants would riot together instead of against each other.”

John smiled. He had to agree.

“Still,” a third cousin said, “I can’t say I’d be sorry never to hear those bastards singing about ‘Fuck the Pope’ and ‘Up to our necks in Fenian blood’ again.”

John’s smile faded. He’d sung songs with those lyrics until the last few years, when he’d lost the stomach for it. Shame swept over him now for ever having delighted in such sentiments, even for the sake of a football team.

“Speaking of which, Fergus,” the deep-voiced cousin said, “what about your new man? Is he Protestant or Catholic?”

John’s gut went tight, as if preparing for a punch.

“Don’t know, Donal. Don’t care.” Fergus paused for what sounded like a puff of cigar. “Neither church approves of our relationship, so it doesn’t matter to us. Doesn’t matter to most Scots, in fact. The only place people care about religion is at Old Firm football matches. Surely you’ve heard the term ‘ninety-minute bigot’?”

“But he’s not a fan of Celtic.”

“He’s not a fan of pro football. Says it’s too commercial and corrupt.”

“He’s right about that.” Donal snickered. “Aidan here thinks John looks like a Prod.”

A wave of heat swept over John’s scalp. He knew he should go before he was discovered. But he needed to hear Fergus’s response.

“Aye, he looks English,” Aidan said. “You know, kinda thick?”

John braced himself for the stereotypes: that his eyes were close-set, beady. That he looked inbred. Would Fergus now search his face for those aspects?

“My da had English blood.” Fergus’s voice went from ice cold to red hot. “And how dare you insult John? He’s far from thick. He’s the cleverest person I’ve ever—”

“No one’s slaggin’ John,” Graeme interrupted. “He seems a good man, all right.”

“He is a good man,” Fergus spat. “I wouldn’t care if he did support Rangers, or if he was Protestant. I wouldn’t care if he was the Orange Order’s Grand fucking Master!”

His heavy footsteps retreated, then the back door swung open. Its ensuing slam echoed throughout the garden, and in the pulse of blood in John’s temples.

He’d barely digested his boyfriend’s defiant words when Donal spoke again. “That wee Prod’s got our Fergus by the baws.”

“Literally,” Aidan added, and they all laughed.

The conversation turned to the women in their lives, and a few minutes later, the cousins retreated to the house. John stayed put, lost in a memory from his childhood.

He was six years old. Keith had stayed out ill from school that day, so John was to walk home without him for the first time. Instead of taking the usual path, he’d opted for a shortcut that led past the nearby parish school.

John stared across the street at the wee stone building with its stained glass windows and pretty white statue of Mary holding out her welcoming hands. The students were flowing out of the front door, ignoring Mary as they passed her, chattering and laughing in their uniforms.

He looked down at his own boring trousers and long-sleeved T-shirt, then thought of his school’s dull concrete walls. This school in front of him was closer to his house, so why didn’t he attend here? Someone must have made a mistake.

John checked carefully for traffic before crossing the street. He’d ask the headmaster or headmistress if he could come here next year. He would promise to look after his uniform properly.

He was halfway up the front path, just past the statue, when a voice behind him yelled, “Where do you think you’re going?”

John turned to see a group of four lads around his age. One of them, he thought, lived on his street, but they’d never met.

“I’m gonnae see about the school,” he told them.

“What about it?” the biggest one said, lumbering back up the path toward him.

“If I can go here.”

For some reason, they all found this hilarious. The lad from his street whispered the name of John’s school to the others, and they laughed some more.

“What’s so funny?” he asked them.

“You, ya wee eejit.” The big one grabbed him by the shirt collar and spun him to face the statue. “Don’t you know what that means?”

“Erm…” John
thought
he knew what it meant. He’d seen Mary in a nativity play at his church last Christmas.

“It means ‘No Huns Allowed’!” The boy hurled John face first into the pavement. The skin tore from his hands as they broke his fall, and his rucksack slammed the back of his head.

“I didn’t know!” He tried to push himself up, but the boy set upon him, jamming his elbow into John’s back.

“If I ever see your smelly wee arse here again, I’ll shove my foot so far up it, you’ll be licking my toes.”

“Logan!” thundered a deep female voice behind John. “Leave that poor boy alone and come here.”

John lifted his face an inch off the pavement, enough to glimpse Logan’s mates backing away with unsteady steps. He turned his head and met Logan’s eyes, which had gone round with terror and dark against his rapidly paling face. He almost felt sorry for the lad.